Pabonya did not want to be late. This was his day.
From the very start, he'd been confident he could handle a woman nearly three times younger than himself. The witnesses he'd secured had delivered perfectly — not even Tesot detected a crack in their lies. That very evening, Pabonya had called them to commend their performance.
Two weeks had now passed since Becky had been cast out.
Today, her father had finally agreed to face the elders of Kapsoket clan and hear the case. Pabonya knew he'd need those same women to repeat their false testimony.
He arrived early at Rebecca's compound, where the trial would take place. His eyes scanned the yard, and satisfaction welled in him: chairs set in a semicircle under the grand Acacia tree, tables in front of each seat, and sofas at either end reserved for clan elders and important guests. The rest — common folk — would sit quietly on the grass, knowing their place.
As the morning sun dried the dew, people began streaming in, each claiming a spot befitting their status. Soon, the compound was bustling: men in heavy coats, women in bright lesos, curious children peeking through hedges. All had come to watch the final act of what had become the clan's drama.
Then Sigilai arrived in his car, and Pabonya's thin lips curled into a pleased smile.
Both front doors opened at once: father and daughter stepped out and walked side by side toward the gathering.
They were shown to a long sofa directly opposite the elders. Becky's gaze briefly caught Tesot's. He sat among the elders, stiff and unreadable.
Every person who had been at the first meeting was present again. Becky felt the weight of every stare.
---
Kurgat, chair of the council of elders, rose to open the meeting.
He welcomed all, thanked them for coming, and called on Sitonik to lead a prayer. Then Rebecca, as host, was asked to say a few words of welcome.
Without delay, Kurgat recounted the background: how allegations had arisen, how Becky had been sent away when Sigilai hadn't come as requested.
He then invited Pabonya to elaborate.
Pabonya stood, clearing his throat.
"Fellow elders, in-laws, and guests: Ochamgeitugul!" he greeted.
"Kichamegei missing," came the customary reply.
"We are honored today by the presence of our in-law Mr. Sigilai," Pabonya began. "Tesot's household is in crisis, and we gather to find a solution."
Calmly, he painted Becky as a woman of shocking disrespect and betrayal. He spoke of the day the elders had "reluctantly" suspend her, stressing that Sigilai's absence had forced them to act. And then, as if delivering the final blow, he reminded them there were eyewitnesses ready to confirm her "crimes."
No one objected.
Pabonya called the women forward. One by one, they spoke — rehearsed words falling into place like stones building a wall against Becky.
Becky listened in awe. The forum offered undeniable confirmation: Pabonya was the mastermind behind the web of lies that branded her a harlot. He had vowed to ruin her, and here he was, pressing his heel against her throat.
When he finished, Kurgat, the chair of the meeting, took over.
"Pabonya has made his case. Before the elders deliberate on this and give their verdict, I must invoke the principles of natural justice—one of which is that no one should be condemned unheard. Becky, what is your response to what you've heard here? We invite you to defend yourself."
Becky rose confidently. This was the moment she needed to come clean before everyone. Members of the clan had turned out in large numbers, eager to hear from her. She had known it won't be a walk in the park and had prepared herself adequately.
By the standards of the more liberal minds among them, she was smartly dressed. Her skirt, as always, barely brushed her knees. High-heeled shoes gave her a graceful height. Her coat left a hint of her chest visible, where a necklace rested above her cleavage. Her hair was impeccably styled and tied with a velvet ribbon, secured by a matching headband. She wore red lipstick.
To Pabonya—and others who shared his rigid outlook—she appeared a rebellious girl, deliberately mocking their code of tradition with every choice of clothing.
"My elders," she began, sweeping her gaze across the expectant faces. "I am sincerely greatful for the wisdom you've demonstrated by according me this chance to respond to the sordid allegations leveled against me. I have sat here and listened with flabbergastation to the slanderous accusations that led to my estrangment . It pained me that my own father-in-law is the author of this scheme, that he can churn out falsehood just to get even with me. If you allow me, I would share the origin of our differences.
"Everything arose from the personal differences between us. He was displeased with how I dressed, and he made his disapproval known at every turn. He lectured me, so many times, on how bad it was for me to dress like that. Am sorry to say that despite his constant reminders that I should change my ways, I did not yield. Then it became a habit that every time we met, all we did was engage in conversations that ended up in bristling arguments over nothing but clothes. He never tired of pointing out that I was an embarrassment to the clan."
She paused, scanning the crowd. Faces softened; others stayed cold.
"Esteemed elders, allow me to remind the congregation that I had dressed that way all my life—from when I was a small kid, when I met my husband, when he proposed to me, when I accepted to marry him. Many of you listening to me came to the Koito that betrothed me to your son. You all saw how I was dressed. The marriage proposal was approved, and the wedding planned. I came to live among you for about three years without adopting a new style. I was conservative as far as my dress code was concerned. Still, everybody was comfortable with me. My husband always praised my choice of clothes. He always acknowledged that I was very beautiful in them, which made him proud of me; that encouraged me. Whenever I went far, he never shied to point it out. And I followed his guidance. For three years, no one raised an objection. My husband loved how I dressed — he praised my taste. So, when my father-in-law saw me differently, called me a failure, an embarrassment, and a disappointment to the clan, I thought he was accusing me of being myself—the self that your son fell in love with, the self that you paid the bride price for. I thought he was wrong to berate me for being what I have always been. That is what made me to answer him back the way I answered."
Murmurs rippled through the gathering.
"Having said that, " she continued. "I want to admit before this congregation I take a bit of blame for what has befallen me. It was thoughtless and insensitive of me to argue with him. And for that, I ask your forgiveness. But to exploit that and twist our quarrel into an accusation of adultery… that is unjust."
She looked up, tears brightening her eyes.
"And for the record," she said, voice cracking, "I want to say that I have been loyal. I loved Tesot deeply. My heart has never wandered. I know many men admired me — but I never crossed the line."
She turned, locking eyes with Tesot. His face betrayed a flicker of something — regret? Longing? Even love?
"I swear before the living God," Becky declared, "I have never lain with any man but my husband. Ask him: he is the one who took my innocence. If I am lying, may the Almighty strike me dead."
A hush fell over the gathering. Some elders nodded soberly; others looked away.
Then Sitonik rose.
"It is rare," he began, "to see such courage and honesty. But Becky, there remains the grave charge: that you brought another man into Tesot's own bed. Speak to this."
Becky's heart thundered. She scanned the crowd again — searching, pleading.
Tesot's eyes stayed locked on hers, his expression torn.
She drew a shaky breath. "It is false," she said, voice hoarse but clear. "I have never betrayed my husband. These are lies planted to destroy me — born of anger over my refusal to be controlled. I swear again: I have been faithful."
Her words rang out, raw and defiant.
She sat down, shoulders trembling. Tears spilled freely now.
Sigilai, her father, rose next. His voice was heavy with sorrow.
"My heart is heavy," he said. "This is my daughter. I know her flaws: she is proud, sometimes stubborn. But she is genuine. Elders, I beg you: search for the truth — do not let malice triumph."
He paused, voice shaking.
"And if you judge she cannot remain, know this: I will take my daughter home and return the bride price. Even a rotting rat belongs to its household."
The old Kalenjin proverb settled over the crowd like a dark mist.
It was now upon the elders to make a ruling. Becky and her father were requested to step aside, to allow the council to deliberate. Tesot too was excused, no longer to sit as judge over his own wife's fate.
Kurgat cleared his throat. "How about Pabonya steps out too, so we can freely scrutinize what he has presented?" he proposed, his voice calm but resolute.
For a heartbeat, silence reigned. Then, like dry grass catching fire, the meeting flared into heated argument.
"What?" Pabonya, clearly pierced, was the first to shoot up from his seat, his face darkened. "Are you out of your mind?" His voice dripped scorn as he glared at Kurgat. "You've been leaning towards Becky ever since this matter began!"
"Your assumption is wrong," Kurgat countered, still steady. "For the sake of fairness, you shouldn't be among the judges. You're the one pressing charges, and it is against the spirit of justice for an accuser to sit in judgment. There is clearly a conflict of interest. Step aside and let impartial elders decide."
Pabonya's nostrils flared. "So now I'm unfair?" he barked. "Don't hide behind your polished words, Kurgat. You think we don't see you've chosen side? Maybe you should step down yourself!"
Kurgat kept his gaze firm, earnestly studying Pabonya. His mind turned over the peculiar manner in which Becky seemed to provoke such immense negativity in him—as though Pabonya had suddenly discovered a grotesque deformity that had long lain hidden in the body of her married life.
Aloud, he said, "The fact that the charge of infidelity arose immediately after your dispute with Becky over her dress code—something you never mentioned to us until she brought it up—raises troubling questions. Isn't that a striking coincidence? Are we certain this isn't a personal vendetta disguised as justice?"
"You're so funny!" Pabonya, in a new ignition of anger spat back, sarcasm twisting his lips. "Always trying to lecture us with your university education. We're proud of our custom—you won't impose your worthless civilization on us!"
The mood grew restless, elders shifting in their seats, some nodding, others frowning.
Seeing tempers flaring, Sitonik interjected, voice calm but firm. "Fellow elders, let's not descend into insults. We're not here to shame each other. Kurgat has raised valid questions—but remember, it was Pabonya who initiated this inquiry. We owe it to truth to hear all sides fairly."
But at that moment, Kibomwai rose, broad-chested and booming. "Mr. Pabonya is going nowhere!" he declared, his tone commanding. "He stays with us until we reach a permanent solution. We are elders of Kapsoket clan—no one will sow division among us."
A murmur of agreement rippled across the panel. Pabonya straightened, emboldened by the support.
Kurgat realized the tide had turned. He had ruffled feathers, and now found himself outnumbered. The circle of elders closed ranks around Pabonya, shutting out his protest.
Kibomwai spoke again, voice steady, assuming authority. "Kurgat, your impartiality is now in question. I will chair this ruling."
There was little room left to object. Kurgat, though still seated among the elders, silently surrendered the chairmanship.
Kibomwai raised his hand for silence. "We will now sample opinions from each major household," he announced. "Arap Chepchilat's family will speak first, then Arap Koilegen, then Arap Turkut, and so on. Let every family send one voice."
Pabonya leaned back, relief and triumph barely hidden in his eyes. The council had chosen his side—or at least, kept him inside.
The deliberations began.
Kibomwai's voice rolled over the quiet gathering.
"Arap Chepchilat's family, let your spokesman step forward."
An elder rose, tall and wiry, his face marked by deep lines that spoke of age and authority. Chepchilat stood at the front, clasped his hands behind his back, and surveyed the circle with a sharp, appraising gaze.
"Oamu nee tugul!" he greeted.
"Kichamegei," the panel replied in chorus.
Chepchilat's voice was stern, his words deliberate.
"As the Kipsigis rightly say, 'Kitindo karik amakitindo konda' — one may lay down his weapons but never his eyes. I have watched, listened, and I must speak plainly. That woman shows a character that baffles me: indescribable arrogance wrapped in a disguise of elegance."
He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in.
"Her grooming alone speaks louder than her tongue," he continued. "I could scarcely believe my eyes when she appeared in those ridiculous clothes — the painted lips, the exposed chest, the glitter meant to entice rather than honor. And she dares tell us she has dressed like this since childhood? Then she must have been a child who refused to learn respect. She may call it freedom; I call it defiance. And defiance must never contaminate our clan."
Chepchilat stepped back, his jaw set, as if sealing his judgment with silence.
Pabonya exhaled, satisfaction flickering in his eyes.
Next, Kibomwai turned to Sitonik. "Speak, brother."
Sitonik shifted, clearing his throat. His gaze softened as he spoke.
"Brothers, sisters — what we face is delicate. Becky has spoken with courage; rare for anyone to stand before elders and plead openly. If — and only if — she truly committed what she's accused of, my counsel is this: we warn her, and we forgive."
He paused, measuring his words.
"Our strength as elders lies not just in punishment, but in guiding the lost back to the fold. Let her see the clan's mercy, but also know our line is not to be crossed again."
Some heads nodded, others remained stone-faced.
Kibomwai turned next to Kurgat. The elder rose slowly, the burden of disappointment and stubborn hope upon his shoulders.
"I am yet to be convinced," Kurgat began, voice steady but tinged with sorrow.
"I have listened to testimony, and I see gaps. I see a quarrel between father-in-law and daughter-in-law explode into something greater. I see timing too convenient to ignore."
He lifted his eyes to the sky for a moment, then back to the elders.
"There is a Kalenjin proverb: 'Ng'ot kobuti teta nebo kelyek ang'wan, kotos maibuti chi?' — if a four-legged cow may stumble, wouldn't a human be even more vulnerable? If indeed Becky stumbled, should we not help her rise again?"
A hush settled around the circle.
"And more," Kurgat added, his voice softening. "There is a child at stake — a little boy who needs both his father and mother. If we cast her away, what damage do we do that cannot be undone? For the sake of peace, for the sake of the innocent, let us reprimand her. Let her feel the weight of our disapproval, but let us not destroy her life completely."
He sank back into his seat, shoulders heavy with the choice he knew would soon follow.
All eyes turned to Kibomwai again, waiting for him to call the next speaker.
Rebecca had sat quietly through the deliberations, the only woman in that gathering.
Tabutany, Pabonya's wife, had been sent away — ordered to remain in the kitchen, far from the ears of the elders.
Pabonya had done everything to keep dissenting voices silent. If it had been up to him, even Rebecca would have had no chance to speak.
But she was his sister-in-law, and tradition spared her that indignity.
Now, as the murmurs of the panel settled, Rebecca rose. The rustling stopped. All eyes turned to her. Even Pabonya, arms folded tight across his chest, felt his breath catch.
Rebecca steadied her voice.
"I want to thank you all for your concern," she began, glancing across the weathered faces before her.
"You had many other duties, yet you chose to be here out of love for this family left in my care after my husband passed. For that, I am grateful. On my own behalf, and on behalf of my family, thank you."
She paused, gathering herself. A flicker of pain crossed her face.
"About Becky," she continued softly, lashes lowering. "I never imagined it would come to this."
Her voice trembled. She swallowed, fighting to steady it.
"When I first met her, I saw in her something special: charm, kindness, and a hardworking spirit. Above all, I loved how she and my son cared for each other. Their love felt real, and it gave me hope for our home."
She lifted her gaze, voice gaining quiet strength.
"Yes, I won't deny — her way of dressing troubled me at times. But I believed she could change. I still believe she can change. Though sometimes wild, she has a good heart. And for the sake of this marriage, I am sure she has now learned her lesson. We should give her a second chance."
Pabonya shifted, his face tightening.
"A second, second chance?" he cut in, hoping to unsettle her.
Rebecca ignored him.
"We all want what is best," she went on. "But sending her away is too harsh. About the accusations of infidelity — I do not believe them. I was shocked at what the witnesses claimed. And even if mistakes were made… everyone errs. No sin is too big for forgiveness."
She drew a breath, her voice unwavering.
"You elders should help my son reconcile with his wife. For the sake of their child. So they can put the past behind them."
When she finished, silence settled over the circle.
Rebecca sat down slowly. Pabonya clenched his jaw. Her words had carried more weight than he'd feared.
The silence broke into murmurs, rising and falling like restless wind.
At last, Kibomwai — now seated as chairman — lifted a hand.
"This will be decided by a vote," he declared. "Every member must choose. Becky stays — or Becky leaves."
The elders exchanged glances. The air felt heavy with unspoken tension.
Pabonya stood first, stepping firmly to Kibomwai's left — the side that called for Becky's removal.
Chepchilat joined him, then others followed, faces set.
On the right, Kurgat crossed over, his expression solemn. Rebecca stepped beside him, her presence quiet yet defiant.
Some elders hesitated, caught between conscience and fear of standing alone.
But as Pabonya's side swelled, those still undecided slipped across, drawn by the pull of the majority.
At last, the room settled. The numbers spoke.
"The meeting has resolved," Kibomwai pronounced, his voice grave, "by majority vote: Becky shall be freed from her marriage. Let this stand as a warning. The clan shall not tolerate defiance of our customs."
The words landed like a hammer on stone.
Outside, Becky faced the elders. Her posture was straight, dignity wrapping around her like a worn shawl.
She did not speak. Only once did she glance back at the home she had tended and built.
Then she stepped into her father's waiting car. The door shut with a soft finality.
Together, they drove away, dust rising behind them.
Rebecca turned aside, tears shimmering but unshed.
Beside her, Kurgat exhaled, weary lines etched deep across his brow.
In the courtyard, Pabonya watched the car vanish into the distance. His eyes, cold and small, gleamed with quiet triumph.
That evening, in Kures, Tabutany met her husband at the door.
"How did it go?" she asked, her voice low.
Pabonya's mouth curved into a tight smile.
"She's gone," he said, the words tasting of victory. "Back to wherever she came from."
"That is why you're so pleased?" Tabutany's voice held sadness — and something sharper.
"This must be what heaven feels like," Pabonya said, almost laughing. "At last, the clan is free of her."
"You should have been more forgiving," she murmured.
"Some people don't deserve forgiveness," he shot back. "She defied me and paid the price."
"All along, you were waiting for this moment to strike back," Tabutany said softly. "Don't boast over another's suffering."
"She brought it on herself," he retorted. "Had she listened, none of this would have happened."
"She is a good woman," she said quietly.
"You don't know her. I saved the clan from her poison," Pabonya replied, his voice rising.
"What kind of savior destroys a marriage?" she asked.
"What they had wasn't a marriage," he sneered. "It was an illusion."
"Hmm." She paused. "And Tesot? How did you bend him?"
"It wasn't easy," Pabonya admitted. "But love is an illness. And I found the cure."
"What you did may look clever now," Tabutany warned, her gaze unwavering. "But don't take pride in someone's tears. You're making enemies. And one day, they may return the pain you've sown."
For a moment, something flickered in Pabonya's eyes — a shadow, quickly smothered.
Then his jaw hardened. His mind clung to victory.